As the silver tones of the convent bell said it was twelve o'clock, a gay procession formed on the sidewalk in front of the Mortons'. First came the little children, and each carried something: shoes, stockings, socks, flannels—all of the very best quality. Next came the middle-sized ones with blankets, sheets, and real feather pillows. Then the biggest ones with china, glass, earthenware, and all such things. After them followed the nurses, carrying the babies, and each baby had a gold coin clasped tight in its little fat hand. Then the mothers, trying to keep the gang in order, brought dresses, shawls, and warm winter clothes. The children wore their best clothes and their freshest ribbons, and could not keep in place for a single minute.
The weather was built on purpose. It had been winter and it was going to be winter, but somehow one little spring day, balmy and fine, slipped in for the occasion. The poor people around got wind of the affair, and streamed over the common. Even the Penitents climbed the back wall of the convent and sat on top of the broken bottles to see the show. Only the nuns went on as if nothing were happening—telling their beads and singing their Ave Marias in ignorance of worldly events, as all good nuns should be.
Then Mrs. Morton gave the signal, and the children clasped hands, and marched across the common, singing at the tops of their lungs. To Peggy and Jerry, drawn to the window by the commotion, it was the sweetest sound they had ever heard since the voices of their dear little babes had been hushed.
Nearer and nearer they came, the little Outcasts, in the post of honour, leading. They did not have anything to be sorry for, but everybody wanted them and they wanted to come. They crowded into the door of the cottage, and nearly buried the aged couple with gifts,—all of them talking at once.
Each child came up and, shaking the worthy couple by the hand, promised never to be thoughtless and wicked again.
After this ceremony, Jerry, overcoming his shyness, made the effort of his life. He thanked the children and their parents in a speech that Peggy afterward described as being "just too beautiful, winding up as it did with real poetry made up mostly from his own head."
And she told the truth. The old fellow had a roguish twinkle in his gray eye as, pointing to the piles of blankets and pillows, he said:
"Though Paddy on the Turnpike
Could never count eleven,
When children all brought feather beds
He an' Peggy tho't they was in Heaven."